HUNGRY

I just cannot get enough to EAT today. It's like my liver is saying LOOK, it's going to take approximately three weeks and 62,000 calories to undo last night's damage, let's get cracking.

I won't even tell you everything I've scarfed, but let's just say that I could use some more of that yellowtail. Mmm... deliciousness. And then Chris had to go off to a stupid barbeque that I can't even think about without salivating, and so I hate him - just for having the audacity to feast on roast pork and barbequed ribs dripping with their own delicious fats and juices. Hate hate hate.

(I bet you never knew how much of a barbarian I can be.)

When I was pregnant I would wake up in the morning, make myself a glass of juice, a glass of milk, and a cup of super-great decaf green tea (which they won't even let pregnant people drink anymore, by the way, because they prefer that pregnant people just don't even breathe because guess what - life kills - and if it will kill you then it will DEFINITELY kill that unborn fetus within), and I'd make a sandwich. For breakfast. And a bowl of cereal, as well as, usually, a bowl of oatmeal. And possibly some french toast. Then I would spoon-feed myself peanut butter and nearly barf because when you're pregnant, that's just really gross, but I was convinced I wasn't getting enough protein so I'd spoon it down anyway.

I gained FORTY pounds when I was pregnant. I think I weighed all of a buck ten when I got pregnant, which is what I weigh now, and by the end of it I was just a walking balloon of myself. Like some huge person came along and ATE ME. I could just never, ever get enough, my existence was this demented diet wonderland where I would sit down and add up all the calories I consumed from this non-stop eat-fest and when I clicked "calculate" it would only add up to twenty-four. I remember finally losing my shit and hauling out a buffalo burger, slapping a fried egg and ten pounds of cheese on top and stuffing it in my face, just so I could hit 3,500 calories.

Do you know how much FOOD is in 3,500 calories? My dear sweet Jesus. No one should have to eat all of that in one day.

I was convinced I was going to give birth to a twenty-pound whale of a kid, but actually, she was quite tiny. And the baby weight? I retained not one ounce of it, prompting mothers of all kinds to say things like, "What? You gave birth only THREE YEARS AGO?! Get out of here!" Which I totally do not understand. I mean, three years? Really?! Let it go, THAT is not baby weight.

Baby weight is having to carry a three-year-old twelve blocks because she says her legs are too short. Not that she's lying or anything, they really are quite short. Remarkably short.

We cut her hair two days ago and I nearly cried, because she looks like an old person. I mean, an old-ER person, one that isn't just too young to know anything. She asks her aunt things like, "Do you see the Blue Morpho butterfly?" and she's started saying "Whatever, Mommy. I just DO NOT care."

She takes after me. The weird, frenetic, straight up-and-down jumping, though, she gets that from her father. And the climbing. His mother told me once that they had a parakeet when Chris was really small, and the only thing it ever learned how to say was, "Chris get down! Chris get down!" And I laughed. I think I was more of a horizontal rather than vertical explorer, and either way you still get tons of bruises, but us horizontal types do tend to have fewer concussions.

God, I'm hungry. What is it about being hungry that turns me into a pansy-cake? I have this delectable lobster ravioli in the fridge, just begging to have some sauce slathered on top and devoured, but I'm like, oh no. That would be Effort. When really, I want... Delivery. Except I don't want to eat anything that anyone would deliver.

Food - or the lack thereof - can be so emotional, especially when you're incredibly hungry and your blood sugar is low and your nerves just feel so, so frayed. Once I cried in a restaurant (I was pregnant!) when I ordered the blueberry pancakes and they served them to me covered in this disgusting "compote" with whipped cream melting down the sides. I felt like my deepest desire had just been desecrated. I cried sad, sloppy tears. What did they expect me to do with this, eat it? What happened to butter and syrup? My dining companion actually had to take it back FOR ME because I wasn't just sad, I took it personally. I was deeply offended at what these people had done to my food, and just what sort of person did they think I was, anyway, that would want to eat something as sickeningly sweet and horrible as THAT?

Compote. Gross.

You know what's NOT gross? Raw, delicious yellowtail served on a dainty little bed of rice. Sweet. Sticky. Rice.